


What Kind of King?

by bgoldfish



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:18:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1821514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bgoldfish/pseuds/bgoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finarfin/Arafinwe's introspection on returning to Valinor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Kind of King?

Just as before, when he'd first chosen to follow his brothers and kin East, he looked back to whence they came. Arafinwe had concerns. Was this the right choice? Was he helping doom them all? It was no easy task abandoning one's family.

Even his. Imperfect. Head strong. Fierce and stubborn. But so very wonderful, all at once. The love he held for his brothers, even with threats and the chaos that the cursed jewels caused...that love could not be denied. He'd stood back then, as Feanor threatened Fingolfin, saying nothing. Just watched. Supported each, for doing as they felt they must, even if his heart disagreed. The two elder brothers were always at each-others' throats. This time had been no different, other than the simple, glaringly obvious, fact of a sword having actually been drawn and brandished.

No bloodshed then. Not then, as was done later.

Not so long in the past, as he looked back. Sailing back home, leaving so many to the doom that had been spoken. His heart ached and trembled as the words echoed in his mind, but he drew a breath. One more breath. And let it back out to join with the breeze that took him and the ships of those who had chosen to follow him back.

Not alone, but he'd lost so much. Left so many behind. He couldn't blame them their fear and desires. Even his precious, beloved Artanis. Even his fierce brothers, whom he feared for. Their children. His precious nephews who loved their father so very dearly they literally would follow him anywhere. Just as he'd nearly done, before those words were spoken.

This was right. This, returning home to Valinor. This was right. Be it right merely for those who returned, who were not exiled, it would have to be enough. Not enough to ease his heart for those who exiled themselves, he would always carry that regret in his heart. He could live with that, knowing he would eventually see them again. Eventually. As years wore him down and he faded, or those who died returned to the Halls of Mandos or were reborn.

Another shuddering breath. Time lapped at his thoughts, dragged on. Reversed. He was high king of his people now, of those who went with him. A title his half brother had once wanted so dearly, but no more. Now it was just him. And he'd do all he could to live up to that and all that was expected of him.

He tore his eyes from the shores even his keen eyes could no longer pick out, and set about moving amongst his people, touching shoulders to give comfort and a kind word. Each step was a dagger to his heart. Each step sent him further and further away from those dear to him - but also dear to the rest of those he walked among.

If he couldn't lead them even in this, what kind of king could he possibly ever amount to?


End file.
